


Just Don't Scream

by wordswordswords7



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Durach, Gen, Hurt Stiles, Mentioned Scott McCall, Monster of the Week, Wendigo, mentioned Derek Hale - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-22
Updated: 2016-05-22
Packaged: 2018-06-10 00:54:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,062
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6931294
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wordswordswords7/pseuds/wordswordswords7
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's a wendigo, another goddamn durach, and the high possibility of a punctured lung. None of that bodes well for the banshee who's choking back a scream.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Just Don't Scream

**Just Don't Scream**

* * *

 

His fingers – slick with blood and dirt – dig into the leaf littered forest floor. They clutch at deadened foliage and twigs as a moan escapes his lips. The wet salivating noise coming from somewhere behind him urges him forward and he tries in vain to drag himself further from his pursuer. Sharp pin-like teeth are suddenly clamped like a vice around his calf and dragging him backwards, eliciting a ragged scream to tear through his blood thickened throat.

The pulling stops as something crashes into his attacker. The jarring motion makes him cry out again as the force of it flips him onto his back. He clutches at the shredded flesh of his chest, blood gurgling at the corners of his mouth as he struggles to breath.

_Punctured lung?_

The fight is out of his line of sight but it doesn't matter because the world is being leeched into a blackness. All he hears is his own wet breathing. Through the haze he thinks he sees strawberry blond curls swaying above him; feels hands pressing against his own.

…thinks he hears distorted voices...

“Do _not_ scream, Lydia! Do you hear me? Don't you _dare scream!_ ”

“Stiles! God, get the...not the Jeep, get your dad's car! The Jeep's back seat is too small!”

“Roscoe...”

“Shut up, Stiles!”

“Fuck... _fucking_ w-wendigos...”

“For once in your life, _shut up!_ ”

Fingers slip between his own and suddenly the burning hot pain subsides into...

...into...

“...floaty...goodness...”

He's being lifted now, pressure still present against his chest and now his ankle too. There's a moment when he's being awkwardly manoeuvred and the hand holding his lets go for a split second. The pain hits him without preamble.

It's enough to send him shrieking into unconsciousness.

 

* * *

 

Stiles' head lulls back against Chris' shoulder, his gut wrenching scream cutting itself short. Isaac is looking stricken, his hand immediately reaching out to grasp the human boy's fingers again. But Chris just shakes his head before trying to slip Stiles into the back seat of his car without jarring his injuries.

Lydia gets in first so she can keep the pressure on his chest, the death scream trying to claw its way up her throat. She swallows it back down forcefully. Not today goddammit! Stiles is lain out across her lap as Isaac scrambles in beside her to prop Stiles' legs on his knees. His own body is a mess of rapidly healing wounds, painful and bloody but disappearing. He clamps one hand on the other boy's bleeding ankle (wrapped in Lydia's cardigan), and the other just above it to once again leech away the pain. He looks determined not to let go ever again.

As soon as Chris closes the door behind Isaac, Allison is peeling away – racing to reach the highway that will lead them back into town. She's already instructing the werewolf to call Melissa McCall at the hospital to let her know they're coming. Her father will tell Scott.

Scott and Derek, Lydia remembers, were waylaid by the Durach.

_A_ Durach.

_Another_ fucking Durach.

One with a penchant for summoning Aboriginal cannibal demons.

Under her blood stained hands Stiles convulses. 

“Faster Allison,” Isaac demands, his voice cracking as he says her name.

The Argent's car picks up speed.

She flashes them a look through the rearview mirror, “What is it, what's happening?”

Just as quickly as it comes, the spasming abruptly stops. Stiles goes terrifyingly limp.

Lydia can't hold it in anymore – knows what it will mean, what it _does_ mean, and yet the pressure of it is crushing her lungs and forcing hot tears to cloud her vision. She looks up and meets Isaac's wide eyes.

“Lydia, no –”

The Banshee screams.

 

* * *

 

He wakes first to the mingling scent of sweat and soap, blue hospital scrubs reaching over him, faces looming, hands prodding. He thinks he recognizes the kind brown eyes behind one of the masks.

 

* * *

 

 

The second time he comes to, he thinks he's choking and he can't seem to swallow around the _thing_ that's been shoved down his throat. Equipment comes to life around him as he panics, beeping frantically in tune with his heart. Warmth spreads through his veins and the calm that follows feels forced but he gives into it anyway. 

 

* * *

 

She watches him awaken slowly, in increments starting with the long dexterous fingers of his right hand. They twitch, curl slowly and then still. Next, his legs rustle against the thin hospital sheets but soon they too cease their restless movement. His eye lashes flutter and a crease appears between his dark brows. 

She wants to smooth it away but settles instead for holding his hand gently in her own. 

He makes a sound, a raspy groan, and she's already got the plastic cup of water in her free hand. She reaches over and presses the straw to his lips. He drinks gratefully without even opening his eyes, frowning when she pulls it away. 

“Slowly...slowly...” she murmurs and the crease disappears with her words.

He opens his eyes then, slanting them to the right so he can see her sitting in the chair his father has only just vacated in search of Scott's mother. But Stiles doesn't know that.

“Your dad will be back soon,” she tells him quietly, suddenly unsure of what to say. He probably wants John, not her...

He's blinking languidly and she wonders if maybe he's too drugged up to care if she's there instead. She wonders if he even knows where heis.

“Y'ok?” he slurs, giving her hand a weak squeeze.

Tears cloud her vision and she can only nod or risk breaking down completely.

“Heeey...” he frowns at her when the tears spill over and pulls her fingers closer to his side. “Wuswrong?”

“You idiot,” but it comes out without any bite. “You died on me. I screamed for you.”

The words come out thickly and she berates herself because Lydia Martin does not break down! She scowls, thinking to chew him out for getting in the way of the damn Wendigo in the first place. But Stiles is giving her a lopsided grin, sleep already threatening to weigh down his heavy eyelids. 

“Don’t you ever do that again, Stilinski. Not ever.”

He slips back into sleep with a smile on his pale face at the sound of her scoffing.

 

**END**


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